Skirting Darkness
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Deals with Rufus's onset of Geostigma, his relationship with Tseng, and all of the craziness going on in the world around them. Intended to be pre-Advent Children just around the time Rufus takes over Healen. Somewhere in there, anyway. Tseng/Rufus.


Okay...so, here it is. My first Tseng/Rufus that is actually being posted. I wrote this a while ago as part of a larger fic, but this didn't really fit, and I actually did originally write it as a stand alone piece. So, yes. It's intended to be set pre-Advent Children just around the time Rufus takes over Healen and re-names the facility, etc. Somewhere in there, anyway.

An important note: this deals with Rufus's onset of Geostigma. I am picturing Rufus's stigma as being dark blotchy patches, not like, festering wounds as portrayed in Advent Children Complete where you see people dying and vomiting up dark oily stuff. (Shiver.) From what I understand, Rufus's version of Geostigma is some discoloration, etc. Not...uh...festering wounds. So just keep that in mind.

So! My first attempt at a Rufus/Tseng NOT limited to a threesome fic. :) 

* * *

><p><strong>Skirting Darkness<strong>

Three things about Geostigma became clear very quickly for the entire world: it was progressive, more than one person had it, and it was incurable. Other than that, people blamed the black patches that inevitably led to grotesque skin ailments, organ failure, and then quickly to death, on unseen forces. Meteor and the Lifestream had been real, that much was certain-everyone had lived through that. Beyond that however, Geostigma was like a mysterious plague sent down from an angry god. Most people blamed it on Mako energy and Shinra.

But even _that_ god was still stuck in the world, and he too bore the marks. The knowledge that he shared the affliction would have been an insignificant consolation to the victims though, since the first wave of deaths had finally begun. The bodies were being dumped and burned in specific sites just outside of the ruined city of Midgar, designated solely for the purpose. Ironically, as the population was dying, Edge was being built rather quickly, a new city at Midgar's non-toxic edges; needless to say, it would be smaller than first planned.

Rufus had sent Tseng to oversee the site specifications for body disposal. Strategic planning was one of his specialties, as was diplomacy. The people were angry, but like all of humankind, they craved order and social rest, particularly in the madness of the new devastated world. The appearance of Tseng, especially in his role as a Turk, told them two things: some part of Shinra had survived, and they were being given instructions. Unsurprisingly, they followed them.

The stigma didn't seem to spread by touching the afflicted or even sharing the same space, though in their panic, most treated it like plague anyway. People started to hide the marks as though they were a brand of social malfeasance, burned onto the skin in black cloudy patterns, marking them for an uncommitted crime. But Rufus knew that he had, in fact, committed a crime, and wore the marks like a curse that god had placed upon him with good reason. However, he knew only one god, and that was his own company.

They did it every week-the survey of how bad his own Geostigma was. But sometimes, when he shut the door behind him, and Tseng would help him take off the bandages and catalogue new marks, worse marks, and probably in the future, necrotic flesh (that had yet to appear), Rufus thought carefully about the stigma. It seemed like poetic justice-a little too poetic, too fitting-and just like a god, he saw the universe around him, ordered it and strained it, until he had left a creation that made sense to him.

Something in the Lifestream was wrong; he could feel it in his skin, trembling in the dark brands on his body, as if afraid of being found out. The ether of his very being seemed fraught-no, the stigma was not a random phenomenon brought on by a traumatic global event. He knew that other machinations were at work, cogs turning that no one could see. He wondered if he'd stay alive long enough to find out if he was right.

He could hear Tseng scratching out notes on a pad of paper about what he saw on Rufus's skin. Rufus was facing the wall; he used to watch in the mirror to record his own demise, then realized that it was a pointless and macabre activity. Self-pity was a thing best left up to children and the weak, although for Rufus, it was more about the concept that he was, in fact, mortal after all. It was a good lesson to learn. At least he wasn't exiting the world with a sword to the chest, he mused, remembering Sephiroth's Masamune blade protruding deep from his father's body the day be became the company president.

His thoughts were interrupted as a cool breeze from the open window blew air against his naked body from where he stood, and he realized it was finally spring. The seasons had slightly shifted since Meteor; spring had been due at least two months earlier.

"Shall I close it?" Tseng asked, hand pausing that had been scratching fiercely with a pencil.

"No," he replied, and turned to face Tseng. "It seems that the seasons are finally catching up."

Tseng nodded and, as if an afterthought, focused his gaze pointedly at Rufus's right arm, and raised an finely arched eyebrow.

Rufus knew that look. It was the same look that Tseng had used on him when he was young and about to do something foolish, and was being warned; a look that, in its intensity, that could deliver the type of warning and dark promises of punishment that no one in their right mind would test. It was the steely-eyed look of a Turk, a serpent gaze that transformed people with fear. As a teenager, Rufus had wondered if the reason Wutai had lost the war was solely because Tseng had raised an eyebrow at them in just such a way. This time, the look told him of the severity of his condition as Tseng's eyes settled heavily on his arm.

Rufus did not have modesty issues. He had no nervousness, no embarrassment over being naked. But it was the need that put him on edge-not Tseng's hand clinically poking at him every now and again, not the intensely scrutinizing looks he gave the stigma as he jotted down notes for when they saw the researchers. It was that Rufus needed his help; he simply could not do it himself. He couldn't keep track of his own body's condition in the way that an outside objective person could, couldn't see it from all angles. In this, he required assistance, and that was when he realized one of his greatest weaknesses: his "self reliant or die" approach to life. He was shrewd about whom he trusted and why; unlike his father, he had honed that skill early. He realized he should trust more in his instinct than in his suspicions, and he often thought that might be the reason why Reno, Rude, Elena and Tseng were still around. He had no doubts about their loyalty, and he trusted Tseng above all to effectively lead them. He looked up and realized that the subject of his thoughts was still staring at his arm with the same dubious expression.

"That bad?" he asked, looking down at his forearm and then the wrist that was starting to become ashy and infected.

Tseng's mouth just tightened, and then he nodded slightly. "Maybe," he replied. He put the pencil down and moved to stand in front of Rufus. He took the offending arm in hand and brought it close to his face, studying the skin carefully. He pressed his thumb against the gray and black mark.

"Does that hurt?" he asked. Even Rufus, relatively secure in his own beliefs about the nature of stigma, had to give Tseng credit for being that confident that it wasn't communicable through touch. If there was a single word that could describe Tseng though, undoubtedly it'd be "resolute."

It _didn't_ hurt, but it felt far away and numb, as if an ice cube had been held against his skin for a long time and then abruptly taken away. That meant the nerve endings were on their last legs.

"No, just numb," he said, shrugging. He had accepted his own demise long ago, whenever it came, but he was also determined to be productive in the ruined world he had helped to create. Atonement was simply necessary because that was the natural order as he saw it. He wasn't quite sure if remorse was related, nor was he sure that he was capable of feeling it. It often occurred to him that it might be better if he simply couldn't-remorse wasn't designed for people like him. It was his will that guided his actions, and something like divine providence, or his own grand vision, that guided that in turn.

He was startled out of his reverie as he felt Tseng's thumb slide up to a patch of good skin.

"Feel normal?" he asked, face perplexed.

Rufus just nodded. "It can't be helped," he finally said, then found himself perplexed because he could no longer read Tseng's expression.

"You don't think that the appearance of the stigma is a random event," Tseng guessed.

Rufus nodded in affirmation, responding, "No, I don't. But I also don't know why."

Tseng realized right then that he still had his thumb pressed over the soft skin of Rufus's inner arm, right below the elbow, over the veins and sinew and warmth, and the heartbeat he knew was there. It reassured him in ways he didn't understand.

He started when Rufus's other hand closed over his and pulled it down to a wrist. Tseng could actually feel the pulse now as Rufus released him, even under the dark stigma.

"I _am_ still alive, Tseng," he said, some note of bemusement floating in his voice. "I can't feel your hand, but I know that you can feel my pulse."

Tseng nodded, but didn't disengage. He waited a few beats, and then Rufus stepped forward at the same time that Tseng pulled him closer, and they both looked surprised.

Now they stood mere inches apart. Rufus shivered a little as he felt another breeze, even though this one was warm. He was so close that he could hear Tseng breathing-feel his breath, saw a smudge of pencil shavings on the sleeve of his normally impeccable suit-could see from where he stood the sheen of the long dark hair that fell down past the other man's shoulders.

Rufus pressed two fingers lightly to the side of Tseng's neck, felt the spasmodic swallow and waited for the heartbeat, so close there, right under the skin. His fingertips connected with the rhythmic beating of Tseng's life, and Tseng's with his.

"Your pulse is weaker," Tseng said quietly, "than it was a few weeks ago."

He moved his fingers away from Rufus's wrist, then slowly slid them up his arm, over his shoulder to his back, down past the planes of shoulder blades, a few notches of spine and then sat at the small of it.

To Rufus, it felt like Tseng was playing a piano with missing keys-a chord struck against his skin followed by abrupt silence-where the stigma had crawled over him like a nightmarish shroud, slowly trying to suffocate him, tar and feather him in punishment for everything he had done.

Rufus tentatively moved his hand away from Tseng's neck. Then, in a movement not even he was expecting to make, his fingers ended up against the other man's lips. All that he could think for a split second, the only word to pass through his normally noisy mind, was: _warm_. Warm quickly turned into wet as Tseng opened his mouth, and then Rufus just let his fingertips sit on Tseng's bottom teeth, feeling breath against his knuckles, but not pressing any further forward. Tseng bit down lightly and the pads of Rufus's fingers felt electric.

Then the hand on his back retreated, and Tseng stepped behind him. Rufus looked over his shoulder curiously, not even sure he approved of what was happening. His mind shorted out and then he no longer cared as he felt Tseng's tongue on his neck, bites down his back, traveling the same path as his fingers had. Only this time, Tseng could see where he was going and traced the good skin, and Rufus shivered in a way that had nothing to do with wafting breezes.

"Can you feel this?" came the soft voice from behind him. Rufus could sense a dull pressure somewhere on his shoulder, but that was all.

"Not particularly." He had known it was getting worse, even without all of Tseng's note taking and examining and pondering.

"But you feel this," Tseng's words were lost in a hot breath against the back of Rufus's neck where his mouth was suddenly pressed.

"Yes," he said. It almost came out as a wordless shudder.

Tseng grabbed his hips and pulled him close so that they were finally against each other, and Rufus leaned back. That was all-just leaned into Tseng, and then all at once, the feeling against his back evened out, and he felt pressure, a dull force, but felt it all together, and knew that it was Tseng's body.

He was surprised it was actually happening. At some point in his life, somewhere after childhood but before the death of his father, he had thought about being in a similar position with Tseng as he was right then. Had thought about it rather a lot, but had dismissed it, condemned it for the fanciful wish that it was, and forced himself to forget it. He could have had as many or as few lovers as he wished-a great many were willing, both men and women. And there had been a select few, people who knew what the terms were, could accept the understanding of what it entailed to be fucked by the Vice President of Shinra, knew that there was no marriage proposal in the works. But Tseng was different.

Rufus had learned about the politics of sex with powerful people very quickly, had learned that even what went on "behind closed doors" was never really behind closed doors, especially at Shinra. Everyone had known that his father spent most nights at the Honeybee Inn, even which girls that he favored; the key was pretending that you didn't. But there were standards, even for the supposed secret social faux pas of the rich. It was Tseng who had hidden the existence of Rufus's first male lover from his father.

And Tseng was the only one he had ever allowed to see him as he was now: infected, dying, marked. Nor had anyone ever seen him quite as he was in that exact moment: panting, hard and eager.

He could feel Tseng's smooth suit against the still-sensitive parts of his back, the quick draw away, the sound of expensive fabric crumpling onto the floor, buttons, the rustle of a shirt untucked, then a flutter of white in the corner of his eye as it joined its partner on the ground.

Tseng's chest was warm against his skin and he turned around. The hands dropped from his hips, and they pressed up against each other.

"Why now?" he questioned. His voice was calm. "Because I'm dying?"

"No," came Tseng's voice. "Because you're alive, and so am I." Then added as an afterthought, "However unexpectedly."

Rufus gave a small enigmatic smile that held no warmth.

"Yes," he agreed.

"And because," Tseng spoke again, low in his ear. He held his fingers at Rufus's mouth this time; Rufus rolled his tongue against them without hesitation. "I want to know how this feels." His voice was heavy now, his breath coming more quickly.

His palm snaked down Rufus's back, hitting all the good places he remembered, and then down further until very slowly, a slick finger pushed into him. It moved at a beautifully slow, torturous pace. Tseng's other hand clutched at Rufus's shoulders, splayed out like a trembling star that tightened as Rufus arched his back. Tseng heard the hitched breath, then a slow deeper one. But the second was exhaled a little too quickly to be completely calm, a bit of voice trailing at the end like a shining minnow caught in a net, unable to escape.

"Feels good," Rufus finally breathed out his answer, focusing intently on the exquisite sensation of Tseng's finger inside of him-painful, needed, wanted-and felt it more than he had felt anything in years. Before Geostigma, before Sephiroth and Meteor, before his half-dead skin.

His heart was beating fast enough now that he thought the other man would never complain about a weak pulse again. He reached for Tseng's cock-hard, straining, a barely audible gasp-and he began to stroke. Then faster-finger, fingers, unzipped pants. Voice. Breath.

Tseng shallowly fucked him now with two fingers, a voice somewhere pleading to go deeper, to go faster-neither one knew to whom it belonged, nor did they care. Rufus's hand was stroking Tseng in tandem with the urgent movements crashing into his body, swelling his cock: all motion, all heat, all inside. No numbness or missing notes.

Tseng leaned against Rufus, struggling to stay standing, to not press his cheek against blond hair, even though he was afraid he'd never have the chance again-leaning and finally afraid of the marks that seemingly enveloped him as much as they did Rufus.

"_Yes._.." Rufus's ragged voice, a rare moment of lost control, something like grief resting in the lower register. Tseng felt him lean forward to rest his chin on top of a shoulder. He thrust into Rufus's hand faster now, making low noises in his throat, hips powerful and strong in their movements. Rufus felt dark hair brush against his forehead, sparking against his skin like a livewire in a bright flash of light.

When he rubbed his cock against Tseng's, his hips jerked forward and he came as fingers slammed into him, hard now. A deep-throated sound as Tseng followed, his face tense and eyes closed; then their bodies were slick and sweaty and suddenly weak. There was a scramble for purchase against a wall, and Rufus's body was like a trellis that Tseng gripped onto.

Hand pressed to heart, Tseng felt the thump of Rufus's pulse begin to slow again. Rufus turned, pressed his mouth against Tseng's neck, lips not moving, and said nothing. They both knew that it was almost time to wrap him back up.


End file.
